


the negative

by tatiana_romanoff



Series: Bohemian Rhapsody [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hydra (Marvel), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, SHIELD, The Author Regrets Nothing, an oc story but don't @ me, me? starting another story I can't finish? it's more likely than you think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23173975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatiana_romanoff/pseuds/tatiana_romanoff
Summary: Hydra is exposed; its secrets spilling out into the open for all the world to see. SHIELD is left decimated, any loyal agents either dead, forced to pick up the pieces, or forced to move on. In the aftermath, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson start the search for the Winter Soldier, the man who used to be Bucky Barnes goes into hiding, and the Avengers attempt to semi-assemble. Enter: Beth James, Myra Andreas, and Kat Alessander.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Sam Wilson (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Bohemian Rhapsody [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665877
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I need a free PC check lmao

“Any sign of the target?”

Beth James grunts (a disappointed _no_ ) and adjusts the scope of her sniper rifle. At the apartment door, Owen de Luca sets down a bag of takeout.

“He’ll come out eventually”, Owen sighs. He flops down onto one of the twin beds, ignoring the creaking springs, and rolls onto his back. “SHIELD’s not one for comfort, huh?”

Beth rolls her eyes. She’s been crouched at the window waiting for their target— a cyber terrorist –for about an hour now, and her legs are beginning to cramp.

“No”, she agrees. “This was the apartment with the best vantagepoint. We wait for the target to finish his afternoon lunch, he steps outside the restaurant, and—”

“ _Boom_ ”. He grins. “It’s been way too long since I ate a McDonalds burger. Can’t wait to get back to the States”.

Beth shifts her weight from foot to foot, not bothering to reply. She normally goes on missions like this alone, so it was a bit of a surprise when Coulson told her this was a two-person job.

Owen is…not the _worst_ partner. Maybe a little chatty, like a college roommate.

“You’ve really got that _stoic silence_ thing down”. The bedsprings creak again. It sounds like he’s talking to her, but he very well could be talking to himself. “Hey, is it true— that whole mutant thing? Karl told me about it. It’s rare for someone with the X-Gene to work for an agency like this—”

“ _Shhh_ ”. Beth adjusts the scope again, a nervous tick. “I need to concentrate”.

Owen hums in agreement and falls ( _finally_ ) silent. Three weeks stuck in this stuffy apartment, with no contact from home, and only now does he try to ask about the rumors.

Grimacing, she returns to the task at hand. By her estimate, the terrorist should walk out of the restaurant in approximately two minutes, if nothing goes wrong.

On the nightstand, their burner phone rings.

Owen, mouth full, scrambles off of the bed to answer it. He swallows right as the dial tone clicks and a muffled voice starts barking at him through the speaker.

Beth’s hearing is pretty good, but her attention remains fixed on the little building across the street, so she only catches snippets of conversation. Something that has to do with D.C. and _Insight,_ whatever that is.

After about thirty seconds, the caller hangs up. Owen tosses the phone in the trash (as previously instructed), and wipes his palms on his jeans.

“Welp”, he says, thoughtfully, and it’s his tone that convinces Beth to lower the rifle and turn around. She stands up and her knees pop.

“We got a situation?” She asks. The gun’s barrel dips down towards the floor.

Owen nods and draws his own firearm, checking the cartridge for rounds. He worries at his bottom lip, and Beth notes the beads of sweat dotting his forehead.

“Unfortunately”, he says. And then, with no notable change in mannerisms, “Hail Hydra”.

The gun fires while Beth is too stunned to move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys, gals, and nonbinary pals, i give you: a pov switch

THREE MONTHS LATER

It should be said that Kat Alessander didn’t believe in the Butterfly Effect, but her friend, nicknamed “Snow”, did.

The Butterfly Effect, to put it simply, is apart of chaos theory: a small change creates a drastically different outcome. Snow had written a paper on chaos theory in college, and had talked about it incessantly for weeks.

Kat had never been invested, but she put up with Snow’s ramblings out of a combination of love and respect. But she remained firm that the Butterfly Effect was not something she trusted.

_ The ice cream flavor I choose will not dictate whether or not I get hit by a bus,  _ she would say, during heated debates in the library.

_ That’s not how it works,  _ Snow would insist, until their other friend Matt distracted them with pizza or a midterm study session.

Matt was cool like that.

Kat doesn’t believe in the Butterfly Effect, but she decided to let Matt take the wheel on the way home from a local bar. Chaos theory and its facets aside, that seemingly insignificant choice was about to make one hell of an impact.

“Karaoke is fun”, Snow says, sprawled out in the backseat. “We should really get together more often”.

Evan, the minivan’s owner, smiles indulgently. “We’re a little busy with the cafe. And, you know. Paying off our college tuition”.

“Oh, yeah. I was so caught up in feeling nineteen again that I forgot about all of my twenty-four-year-old responsibilities”.

Kat laughs. She and Evan are squeezed on either side of the redhead, while Ace and Matt are in the front. “It’s not so bad. I only wanted to quit my job and go off the grid about five dozen times this week”.

Matt glances at her through the rearview mirror and snorts. “How often do you _normally_ think about quitting your job and going off the grid?”

“A hundred times a week”.

Snow makes a sympathetic noise, while Ace turns around to stare at them. He’s only pretending to look offended, and ignores Evan’s playful attempts to kick him.

“I thought you liked working at the cafe”, he says.

“It’s the retail business, honey”. Evan knocks her boot against his arm, cackling when he finally pulls away. “All of the old creepy customers keep complimenting her ass”.

Kat sighs. Unfortunately, this is true.

“ _Anyway_ ”, she says, “How much longer until Matt drops us off? Because Snow drank way too many margaritas to not be sick all over the pleather seats, and we’re a little too old to be doing that now”.

Matt grunts noncommittally. The street they’re on is suburban and framed by woods, which is not a good sign. His sense of direction is as useful as half of their degrees.

“ _Matt_ ”, Snow complains, “Did you get us lost? I’m too drunk to yell at you right now, I haven’t felt this good since my last frat party”.

Ace retrieves his phone from the glovebox and starts fiddling with it. He worries at his bottom lip while tapping at the buttons. “The battery’s dead, so I can’t pull up the GPS”.

“When do you ever charge that thing?”

“Um. Never?”

“ _Shut up,_ I think I know where we are”, Evan interrupts. “I think you need to make a left at the next stop sign. Then maybe a right?”

_ Sounds completely trustworthy,  _ Kat thinks, tired.

“We could always—” she starts, and never finishes.

This is where the Butterfly Effect comes in.

Matt turns away for a tenth of a second, distracted by Evan’s directions. Ace continues messing with his phone, probably convinced that he can coax the thing back to life through sheer force of will. Snow rolls her eyes hard enough to give herself a headache, and Kat is ready to walk home.

A dark shape appears in front of the car, briefly illuminated by the headlights.

“Matt, look out—!”

“Oh, _fuck!_ ”

He slams his foot down on the brakes and the tires squeal. The shape darts to the side, and—

_ THUD. _

The van stops. Its occupants are silent.

“Oh, _god_ ”. Kat scrambles to undo her seatbelt. “God-fucking-dammit, you hit someone!”

Matt punches the wheel (“I _know!_ ”) and kicks open the driver’s side door. Ace follows, and Snow tumbles out after Kat. The only person who stays in the van is Evan, who starts rooting around under the seats for the emergency First Aid kit.

Kat prays that it was a deer. But the universe has very specific ways of showing her just how unlucky she is.

A man is slumped over on his side, next to the van. One of the headlights is broken, so they must’ve only glanced him, but the guy isn’t moving. Matt rolls him onto his back to get a good look at his face, and curses.

“He’s out cold”, he says. “Shit, is he breathing?”

Kat’s first thought is that he looks somewhat familiar, but the recognition is fleeting and passes quickly. Her second thought is that he looks like a homeless man: unkempt brown hair, a beard, and clothes that have seen better days.

“ _Shit_ ”, she hisses, and presses two fingers against the pulse point in his neck.

It’s a little faster than it should be, but it’s _there._

“He’s alive”, Kat says, relieved. “Somebody needs to call 911. If the van grazed him, at worst, he has some cracked or broken ribs”.

Matt retrieves his (charged) phone from his pocket and starts dialing, still kneeling next to the unconscious man. Snow’s face scrunches up, and she takes a wobbly step forward.

“Wait—” She starts, just as the stranger springs to life.

His eyes open faster than Kat can blink, and she stumbles backwards against the hood of the van, narrowly avoiding being hit when he sits up. Matt isn’t so lucky, and the homeless man’s fist catches him square in the nose with a _crunch._

Matt falls onto his back and yells in pain; his phone shattering on the asphalt. The others scream in varying levels of shock and horror, while the homeless man bolts to his feet and vanishes into the trees.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Matt shrieks, clutching his face. Blood seeps through his fingers and splatters onto his shirt. “He broke my _fucking_ nose!”

“Dammit”, Ace hisses. He picks Matt up by the arms and starts pulling him back towards the van. Evan holds the door open for them and backs up to give them room.

“I’ll drive”, Kat volunteers shakily. She forces herself to stand up, and accepts the hand Snow offers. “The drive to the hospital is twenty minutes. You gonna survive that long, Mattie?”

He gives her the finger. She takes that as a _yes._

The next morning, Kat’s nerves have mostly recovered, and she isn’t hungover. The same cannot be said for Snow, who zombie-walks into the kitchen and immediately goes for the Tylenol.

“Last night was crazy”, she says. “You think Matt will come into work?”

Matt had left the ER last night at three in the morning. There was so much tape on his nose, you would think he was dressing up for Halloween as a mummy.

Kat shakes her head. “Probably not. He was pretty roughed up”.

“Well, I _did_ try to warn him”.

“Five seconds before it happened? You’re getting rusty”.

Snow downs two pills with a glass of water and winks, smirking. She sits down at the kitchen counter, across from her roommate, and stretches. “Nah, just drunk. I’m always a little muddled after I’ve had a few”.

“Mmhm”.

“Hey!”

“I’m _kidding._ I have to be at the cafe in, like, fifteen minutes. Matt may not feel up to being a cashier, but Evan and Ace still need waitresses. Are you coming?”

Snow grunts unhappily, but stands up, presumably to get dressed. She and Kat have worked at the cafe for almost as long as they’ve been out of college, thanks to their friends’ charity. The business had been a gift from Evan’s grandfather, before he died.

“I’ll meet you there”, Snow says. “You think they’ll have one of us cover for Matt?”

Kat shrugs, unconcerned. “Math wasn’t my best subject, but I’d rather do that than deal with people who can’t read a menu”.

“ _Preach_ ”.

(Someday, they’re going to get the hell out of Brooklyn, and Kat’s parents are going to shut the hell up about that English degree. But today, she has other things to worry about, especially concerning her job, Matt’s broken nose, and paying the rent on time).

But remembering Matt’s broken nose draws her thoughts to the homeless man.

“Hey”, Kat says, “Do you think that guy is okay?”

“He was well enough to break our friend’s face, so I think he’s fine”, Snow replies, rather dismissively, but she hesitates on her way to the bathroom. “I got… _weird_ vibes off of him. We’re lucky he didn’t pull a knife or something”.

There’s real fear in her tone, but Kat doesn’t buy it, at least not fully. He’d looked…not _scared,_ precisely, but _trapped._ And that wasn’t the expression of a man who would attack out of pure malicious intent, weird vibes or not.

“Yeah”, she agrees, anyway. “I guess you’re right. New York was covered in aliens two years ago— who knows what else could crawl out of the woodwork?”

“And there was that thing in Washington. _Nazis_ in 2014, can you believe it?” Snow sounds appropriately horrified, and, at the same time, vindicated by the evidence supporting her paranoia.

Kat remembers watching the News footage from D.C. in the cafe. It was on every channel, and Evan had pulled it up on the little TV mounted to their wall. People on the streets had crowded inside to watch.

_ The world just keeps getting crazier and crazier. _

“No use dwelling on it”, Kat says. She grabs her apron off the back of the couch and drapes it over her arm. “I really need to go”.

Snow groans, talk of unknown dangers instantly forgotten, and hurries down the hall. “Yeah, yeah, don’t wait up”.

Kat grabs her keys off the keyring, which is actually a nail sticking out of the wall, and pulls the door open. The hallway smells like cigarette smoke and vomit, and somewhere downstairs, a couple is shouting.

The walk to the café is seven minutes, which gives her ample opportunity to overthink. Deep down, she knows that Snow is right: they’re lucky Matt didn’t kill the guy, and that he wasn’t armed. When looking at the bigger picture, Kat should be focused on making sure she doesn’t drown in student debt before she’s thirty.

Still. The look on his face is hard to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

It was safe to say that the world had gone to shit.

“The first _real job_ you get”, Myra Andreas says, in the process of manhandling cardboard boxes out of her car, “The first _real job,_ and it turns out to be Nazis! Then you go and get yourself _shot in Peru,_ secure files are all over the fuckin’ Internet— _including yours_ –and if that’s not enough—”

“We had this conversation months ago—”

“ _Nazis._ In. My. God. Damn. _Living room!_ ”

Beth looks completely unimpressed. It would hit differently if she wasn’t holding a box labeled _novelty mugs._ “The Nazis in the living room were not my fault”.

“Oh, really? Because they seemed _pretty specific_ as to who they were looking for!”

“I was in the _hospital!_ ”

A few pedestrians walking by shoot them funny looks. It probably wasn’t every day that they came across two adult women arguing about Nazis on the street curb.

Or maybe it was. New York could be pretty weird.

Myra sighs and adds another (smaller) box onto the one she’s already holding. The labeler broke in the middle of packing, and she has notoriously bad handwriting, but the rattling sound suggests that the contents are silverware.

“All I ask”, she says, “Is that the next time a mysterious agency approaches you, _don’t join it_ ”.

Beth huffs and kicks the passenger’s side door shut with her foot. “I was a special case”.

“Uh huh. I’ve heard the story. And where did it get you? _Shot in Peru_ ”.

“Thanks for the concern! The only reason my mom didn’t fly to D.C. is because I told her I had a _support system_ ”.

Beth’s mother is a Montana-born, Montana-raised woman, who was a tad too overprotective for someone whose daughter was almost thirty. Myra had encountered her a handful of times since her and Beth met in college, and those times had been enough. It was… _smothering,_ being in that white-trimmed, disinfected house.

“Your mom is like that cliché Southern lady who just wants you to settle down with a nice man and have 2.5 kids. It would’ve been a cruel and unusual punishment to sic her on you”. Myra pauses, halfway to shutting her own door. “Shit—can you get the cat?”

On the floor, Bruno meows plaintively, as if their arms aren’t covered in scratches. He never goes in the carrier without a fight, and four hours ago was no exception.

(With Beth still somewhat decommissioned by the healing bullet wound, it was _quite_ the task).

Beth exhales reluctantly and places the box of mugs on the sidewalk. She reaches back inside the car for the carrier, wincing when the cat hisses and tries to swat at her.

“Damn thing”, she mutters. “Remind me why I agreed to us keeping him?”

“Because”, Myra says, “I put up with Nazis. In our—”

“Living room. I know, I know”.

The story is this: on a relatively standard day, Myra gets a call from a neighbor. He tells her, in no uncertain terms, to _turn on the News right-fucking-now._

Beth had been in a different country doing Super-Secret Spy Shit, or whatever. She hadn’t been there when Myra sat on the couch, stupefied with horror, watching three gigantic ships ( _Helicarriers,_ apparently) plummet into the Potomac.

And that was when the Internet forums started going _batshit,_ talking about leaks, and conspiracies, and a whole mess that she didn’t even begin to understand. In less than an hour, Myra’s world had been flipped on its head, and it only got worse when Beth called and told her what went down in Peru.

(The conversation had essentially been _don’t freak out, but I’m chilling in a safehouse with a hole in my side,_ and her going _!!!_ for an hour).

The whole Nazis-in-the-living-room event was about a week later, less than five days after Beth smuggled herself back into D.C. She _was_ actually in the hospital when three guys in black busted into their apartment.

Myra had tasered one of them, knocked the other out with a bat she kept in the closet, and thrown her favorite toaster at the last guy to deter him. After that, she’d crawled out of the window, called the police, and hired a real estate agent.

And that was how the last couple of months had been for the two of them: trying to avoid being killed by fascists, and Beth floundering in her attempts to find a new job. In the end, it led them to New York City, where their emergency fund was a saving grace.

Still. Myra was impressed by her lack of a nervous breakdown.

“Be free, you shit”, she says, unlatching the carrier and allowing Bruno to scurry into the tiny living room. The tabby ducks through Beth’s legs and rockets underneath the couch, screeching up a storm.

“Rat”, Beth grunts, distracted. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and resumes typing on her ancient MacBook. “Do you think I’d make a good saleswoman?”

“God, no”, says Myra.

“Hm. Me neither. Should’ve gone with the CIA, like Carter”.

“ _Again,_ with the agencies?”

“I’m _kidding_ ”.

Myra rolls her eyes and sits down on the sheet-covered barstool, currently serving as an armchair. She pulls her feet up when Bruno tries to claw at her socks.

“Maybe you should be a bodyguard”, she muses. “There’s probably a greasy white popstar out there that requires your expert protection”.

Beth groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. They make jokes, but a lot of businesses are actually wary about hiring agents from the same organization that was secretly Hydra, and the slumped line of her shoulders suggests that the search is weighing on her more than she’d like.

(The bullet wound isn’t doing them any favors, either. She’s seen it only a few times, when the bandages need to be changed, and they’re lucky the double agent wasn’t a better shot).

“You’re frustrated”, Myra says, finally.

Beth presses her lips together into a thin line. “Should I not be?”

“No. You’ll find another job eventually”.

“ _When?_ ” She slams the laptop shut and puts it on the coffee table. They both have bags under their eyes, but Beth has never been the heaviest of sleepers, and losing SHIELD has made it worse. “I get messages from other agents I used to work with, and they’re trapped at minimarts, or getting evicted, or going on the run because people who used to be their friends are now trying to kill them!”

Myra winces. “If you get a job at Baskin-Robbins, then you’ll get a job at Baskin-Robbins! It probably won’t be forever, and if we get evicted, we’ll find a place to crash until we can get back on our feet. Someone has _already_ tried to kill us, and I think we handled that _beautifully_ ”.

“Really?” Beth’s eyebrows travel to her hairline. “You know you could just move back to California”.

“Trying to get rid of me, James? I thought I was your _support system_ ”.

“ _I_ thought you were still upset about the toaster”.

Myra makes an overly dramatic gesture, stands, and places the laptop back on Beth’s lap. She goes into the kitchen to find her phone and winks conspiratorially.

“I’d sacrifice a thousand toasters if it meant knocking out a thousand Nazis”, she says, thumbing in the number for the pizza place they passed on the way here. “We’re friends, Beth. I’ve been through too much shit with you, it’s a habit”.

“Touching”, Beth replies, but some of the tension has bled out of her posture. “Are you sure we have extra cash for takeout?”

Actually, she isn’t. They used to keep their spare cash in a ceramic, turtle-shaped bowl by the front door, but the bowl was misplaced during the move, and Myra doesn’t remember which one of them grabbed the money.

“Um”, she says, “We have microwavable ramen packets, right?”

“I’m…pretty sure?”

“Great. Guess we’re reliving our college days”.

Myra wakes up at approximately 5am with the feeling that something is Wrong.

(As a side note, she definitely isn’t psychic. Years of dealing with Beth’s bullshit, and the Nazis In The Living Room, have given her a sixth sense for trouble).

She slips out of bed quietly and pads down the hall, dodging Bruno, who is asleep in the center of the floor (like an asshole). The cat lifts its head as she passes and blinks uncaringly.

“What are you looking at?” Myra asks, and Bruno shifts into a different position and goes back to sleep.

_Lazy,_ she thinks fondly.

The living room is empty, but a few more boxes have been opened and the laptop is sitting on the couch. Their tiny TV is also on, and playing the CW channel. It screams _Beth the insomniac not bothering to sleep like a normal human being,_ but she does hate the CW, so it could also be _Beth watching bad shows because the characters’ lives are worse than hers._

Or it’s a poltergeist. That would be par the course.

Myra turns off the TV and wanders into the kitchen, eyeing the empty coffee mug and the plate of partially-eaten toast. It’s then that she notices the sheet of notebook paper, stuck to the fridge door:

_Gone to meet a friend. Be back soon._

  * _B_



Myra reads it once, then double checks to make sure it says exactly what she thinks it does. Her phone is still sitting on the island, and she fires a quick text off to her best friend: _don’t take this the wrong way but you don’t have any other friends._

A minute later, the notification bell sounds.

  * _Rude._



Myra exhales through her nose, trying not to laugh.

_Pls tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with SHIELD._

  * _Ok._ _It d_ _oesn’t have anything to do with SHIELD._



“I was wrong about not moving to California”, she informs Bruno, who simply stretches and yawns.

_Beth._

  * _What??_



_Don’t fuck with me._

  * _…_
  * _I’ll explain when I get home. It’s important._



Myra doesn’t doubt that. It’s precisely what she’s afraid of.

_You better not bring anymore fcking nazis into my fcking house._

  * _I won’t._



_Promise???_

  * _Promise._



(Interesting. Normally, it’s harder to get a _promise,_ promise out of her).

_You better be telling the truth. Bring me back a muffin while you’re at it._

Beth responds with a thumbs-up emoticon. Myra puts the phone facedown on the counter, takes a beer bottle from the fridge, and uncaps it.

(It’s never too late to become a day drinker, especially when your roommate is hellbent on complicating things).

_Be positive,_ she reminds herself, with a semblance of patience. _It could be fine._

Oh, please. Who is she kidding?


	4. Chapter 4

The park in Times Square is hardly empty at this hour, but Beth finds who she’s looking for easily.

Lucas Todd (a young man in his thirties) is sitting on a bench with a briefcase on the ground, resting by his feet. He’s also pretending to read a book, but he puts it away when he sees her coming.

“Agent James”, he greets, standing and holding out his hand.

Beth frowns, but she accepts the shake. “None of us are _agents,_ anymore”.

(She’s got a million failed job interviews and a bullet in her side to prove it).

Todd grimaces, the smile slipping off his face. His job at SHIELD was limited to a desk—a far cry from hers—and they’d only encountered each other at work when she needed to finish a report. As far as she knows, he barely made it out of the Triskelion with his life.

“True”, he admits. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to meet with me”.

Beth nods, and they sit down on the bench together. He resumes reading and she retrieves her phone, absently scrolling through old texts—no one in the park is looking at them, but it’s always good to be cautious. Being paranoid has a persistent habit of saving her life.

“You’ve got a ‘job’?” Beth asks, measured and casual. The email he sent her last night was written in code, but it felt more like a formality after everything that’s happened.

“Mmhm”. Todd shoots her a sideways glance. “At SHIELD, I was responsible for gathering intelligence”.

“I remember”.

“Well, people like us have got… _resources_ ”.

She wonders what he thinks _people like us_ means in this context. But the blonde keeps her mouth shut and waits.

“You were a field agent”, Todd continues, “and from what I understand, you’ve got a specific skillset. Right?”

Briefly, Beth thinks of a long black case, propped up against the wall in her closet. She presses her lips together and replies, “Right”.

“I’ve got a list of potential locales for Hydra bases”, he mutters. There’s a sort of gleam in his eyes, proud and excited. “I don’t have the training to infiltrate them, but _you_ do”.

It takes, as one would expect, a minute to process that.

_Jesus Christ. Myra’s going to kill me._

Beth fights to keep the apprehension off of her face and instead arches an eyebrow. She hadn’t known what to expect when she agreed to the meeting, but _this_ wasn’t it.

“I’m flattered”, she says dryly, “but I’m sure others have the same training”.

Todd surprises her by straightening and shaking his head. He looks _desperate,_ Beth realizes; desperate in a way that none of them had been before those Helicarriers fell out of the sky.

“What others?” He says. “Coulson and his team are off the grid. Hill works for Stark, Carter’s CIA now, who the hell knows where Barton and Romanoff went, and Rogers disappeared as soon as he got out of the hospital”.

“Rogers?” The last Beth had heard of the legendary _Captain America,_ he’d gotten the absolute shit beaten out of him by an assassin.

Todd waves off the question, unbothered by whatever inflection that’s undoubtedly in her voice. “The point is, you’re the best person for this job. I heard about your missions, and the rap sheet is pretty damn impressive”.

“Sounds more like I’m a last resort”.

“That’s not—”

“Lucas, be realistic—”

“We _need_ this, Beth”.

She stops. Something in her chest seizes. “…Pardon?”

Todd sets his jaw and picks up the briefcase. Beth has no doubts on what’s in it—case files, most likely, with all of the information he’s gathered.

“In less than a week, the organization that we thought was protecting civilians turned out to be a lie”, he says. “ _Good_ men and women were killed. I have no idea what the death toll is, but it has to be big. Hydra destroyed us from _the inside._ The least we could do as the survivors is give ‘em hell”.

Beth’s grip on her phone tightens, and she feels the case begin to crack. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, hard, and says, “I wouldn’t be able to do it alone”.

“And you wouldn’t! I’m always on standby, of course, and I’ve hired some people I trust who would be willing to help with gear, extractions, even passports. We’ve got a lady at Stark Industries, too”.

“Stark Industries? How did you manage _that?_ ”

“The short version is a weeks’ worth of phone calls. My buddy is an ex of hers, and I guess they parted on friendly terms”.

Beth doesn’t want to consider the logistics of that. “O- _kay_ …are you sure it would be enough?”

“Uh…no. But we’ve got to try”.

Beth stares at him for a moment longer. Her phone buzzes—probably another message from Myra, wondering why she’s taking so long—and sometimes she genuinely worries for their combined sanity. “And would we bring attract any unwanted company?”

_Someone has already tried to kill us, and I think we handled that beautifully._

Todd grins. “Not if we’re careful”.

_Careful, huh?_

“You know”, she says, “I should get going”.

When Beth unlocks the door to the apartment, it’s lunchtime.

Myra is at the kitchen island, holding a cup of coffee. The cat is curled around her feet (a rarity), and she waits until Beth has sat down across from her to speak.

“So”, she says, “What’d your ‘old friend’ want to talk about?”

Beth pulls the file out of her jacket and sets it down in between them. “A job”.

Myra’s glare seems to imply _are you serious?_ But she puts the coffee down and opens the folder, albeit gingerly. She gives the lists Todd described a quick onceover and makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat.

“Are these what I think they are?” She demands.

“A list of coordinates for potential Hydra bases? Yep”.

“ _What the—_ ” Myra pushes the papers away and looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for strength. She takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales loudly through her mouth, which Beth thinks is a tad dramatic.

“We talked it over”, she says calmly, before her friend can explode. “He needs someone to infiltrate and destroy the facilities. As long as I’m careful, I won’t attract any unwanted attention. I won’t be doing it alone, either, and they’ve got a woman involved who works for Stark Industries”.

“Seriously?” Myra transitions to massaging her temples. “I said no more government agency stuff!”

“It’s _not_ agency stuff. SHIELD no longer exists”.

“Oh, so you’re doing it _outside the law_ now? Even better!”

“This is—” Beth grits her teeth, “ _different_ ”.

“It is _not_ ”.

“It is too!”

“It—god, are we _four?_ ” Myra points to the first set of coordinates, written in careful, printed handwriting. “Do you know where these are?”

“I do”. Beth crosses her arms, silently hoping she looks confident and not defensive. “Todd’s allies are willing to provide transportation. You _know_ I’m qualified to do this, and it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds”.

A moment of silence passes. Myra sighs, takes a drawn-out sip from the mug, and says, “You specifically used the word _job._ Are you actually getting paid, or was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“In his spare time, Todd is a trust fund baby. He’s got a shit-ton of cash spirited away that he’s willing to split between me and anyone else helping me”.

“…And how much is that?”

Beth tells her.

Myra splutters, choking on her drink. She puts the mug down, hacks into her sleeve for a solid fifteen seconds, and croaks, “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ ”, Beth says, exasperated. “It’s closer to mercenary work than I would like, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s _outside the law._ Who the fuck do you think the Avengers work for, Uncle Sam? They get all their cash from Tony Stark’s pockets”.

“That’s…fair”. Myra clears her throat. “How exactly are you planning on being _careful?_ Because if you bring anymore Nazis into my living room, it won’t be them you’ll have to worry about”.

The blonde shrugs. As of this present moment, the conversation is exceeding her expectations in its success.

“Easy”, she says. “I’ll wear a mask”.

“Like a costumed vigilante?”

“Wh— _no,_ not like a costumed vigilante!”

Myra snorts, unconvinced. “Okay. So you’ve got help, you’ve got money, and you’ve got a mask. Aren’t you forgetting the fucking _bullet wound_ in your side?”

_Shit._

“It’s mostly healed”, Beth argues. “My first assignment isn’t for another week, and you know how fast I can heal”.

Judging by the expression on Myra’s face, she does know, and it doesn’t make her feel better. “Beth. Are you _sure?_ ”

_Are you sure you want to get back in?_

Beth thinks of Todd saying _we need this,_ and giving his money to anyone who would accept his offer. She thinks of de Luca getting a phone call and turning on her at the drop of a hat, and watching the News segments labeling every agent who ever worked for SHIELD a traitor. She thinks of all the little connections she had, gone off the face of the earth or dead.

“I’m sure”, Beth says.

Myra no longer looks defiant or annoyed, she looks _tired._ She shakes her head, downs the rest of the coffee, and puts the mug in the sink. “Then I guess I’m with you. May I ask what kind of weapons you’re going to request from your new ‘employer’? Taking down entire bases by yourself was easier when you had bazookas in easy supply”.

Beth had never utilized a bazooka while with SHIELD, no matter what Coulson would insist on, but it doesn’t seem wise to point this out.

“Well”, she says unwillingly, “I’ve got the big guns”.

“ _The_ _big guns?_ ” Myra’s eyes widen. “Isn’t that a little…trademark-ish?”

“I used it on a few undercover missions, the kind that only Coulson or the Director knew about. The rumors sprouted a dozen different theories, and none of them hit the nail on the head. Should be alright”.

(Todd had identified them all as having a skillset—he just didn’t know the extent of hers).

The implications of using _the big guns_ have Myra looking slightly appalled, on top of the exhaustion and faint resignation. If it’s the last thing Beth does, she won’t bring this fight home to her roommate.

“Is it practical enough?” She asks.

“For something like this? Yeah. I think it might be”.

“…You know what I just remembered?”

“What?”

“Where the fuck is that bagel I asked for?”

Beth contacts Todd later that night, after another dinner of microwaved ramen.

  * _Are your boys ready for next week?_



Predictably, she doesn’t have to wait long for an answer.

**_They are. What about you?_ **

  * _I will be. We have to meet in a public place not too far from the target._



**_Copy that._ **

Beth stares at the screen until her eyes are sore, then she climbs out of bed and goes to the closet. She hasn’t gotten around to putting everything away yet, but what she’s looking for isn’t in one of the cardboard boxes.

The black case is in the back, behind a small selection of summer dresses that she never wears. Beth grabs the handle and pulls it out, placing it on the bedspread next to the phone.

To unassuming strangers, it looks like some kind of instrument case—maybe for a violin, or another string instrument. Ironic, considering her mother’s fruitless attempts to teach her.

_It’s something to do, isn’t it? The music might help with the pain, honey._

Beth’s hands have never been good at making music. But what they _are_ good at is something she doubts her mother would approve of.

She opens the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the canon characters!! they're coming soon!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never, lmao. we're back to kat my guys!!

“Do you want my professional opinion?”

Matt looks at Snow and scoffs, unamused. “ _What_ professional opinion? Last I checked, your degree isn’t in plastic surgery”.

Kat watches from behind the café’s counter, stifling laughter, as Snow pats him condescendingly on the shoulder.

“But what I _do_ have is common sense”, she says. “And right now, I think you’re being a big baby about this”.

“ _Excuse_ me!?”

“She’s not wrong”, Evan says, in the middle of sweeping the floor. “The doc himself said your nose would heal up in three weeks. You’ve got—what? Two left? I wouldn’t stress about it. Looks fine”.

“Yeah! It’ll make you seem like a rugged bad boy. Might even get you a date”.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go _that_ far”.

Matt makes a face, the effort to keep his mouth shut evident, and Kat resumes counting the day’s tips. It’s not as much as she would like, but a dollar for their apartment building’s vending machine would be nice.

“Alright, I’ve gotten everyone’s pick-up orders ready, for tomorrow morning”, Ace announces, entering from the kitchen. The front of his apron is doused in flour and his feet drag on the floor. “Remind me again why we decided to offer that feature?”

“Because, dear”, Evan says, “We need _money_ ”.

Ace grunts noncommittally and sits down, hard, on one of the round tables. Of course, it’s one that Snow already cleaned, and she throws her hands up in the air.

“Well, somebody else other than me needs to learn how to bake”, Ace says, oblivious of the redhead’s anger.

Kat grimaces. The last time she went near raw ingredients, there was an _incident_ involving the batter. Evan had actually taped a sign to the wall that read “COMPETENT BAKERS ONLY”, and it was hard to be offended when she was right.

“Not Kat”, Evan snickers, as if she can read the brunette’s thoughts. “I was sure her mom was exaggerating, the last time we invited them over for Thanksgiving”.

“Ev. We agreed not to talk about Thanksgiving”.

Ace snorts, but he’s smiling. He stands and stretches, allowing Snow to swoop in with the rag and clean up the floury print left in his absence.

“True, true”, he says. “Kat, our lovely disaster, do you mind taking out the trash?”

She sighs, nods, and hops over the counter, leaving the crumpled bills and change in their partially separated piles. She ruffles Ace’s hair on the way past him, sending up a _poof_ of white powder, and hurries into the back before he can retaliate.

“Hurry up!” Snow calls, as the doors slam shut behind her. “I want to get outta here before anyone makes another mess!”

As justified as those worries might be, the trash bag Ace has left for her is _heavy._ Kat has to use both hands to drag it into the alley behind the building, where the dumpster is, and the process is tedious.

Here’s the thing.

The café is usually well-populated, but after 7:00pm rolls around, business starts to slow. It closes an hour later, and by then, it’s pretty much empty—not _silent,_ because it’s friggin’ New York City, but…there aren’t tons of pedestrians around. It’s also dark as shit in the alley, and the only light comes from a single bulb hanging from the door frame. That Ace installed himself.

Kat steps into the narrow corridor and freezes in her tracks.

Braced against the side of the dumpster is a dark shape. It moves when the door _clicks_ shut behind her, and she’s abruptly met with a pair of very vivid blue eyes.

_Oh, fuck,_ Kat thinks. Every statistic she’s ever read is flashing in her brain like a neon sign, and her heart pounds ferociously.

The homeless man—the same one Matt ran over, _shit_ —doesn’t move. If he recognizes her, it doesn’t show in his expression. His eyes have the same trapped look that she remembers, unsettling and kind of sad.

His clothes are the same. The bruise discoloring his left cheek is new; Kat’s pretty sure he didn’t have that after the crash.

The silence drags on for an agonizing minute. Neither of them speak.

“Um”. Kat clears her throat, trying to sound braver than she feels. “Are—are you…okay?”

Homeless Man’s jaw clenches, as if he’s gritting his teeth. With his right arm, he grips the side of the dumpster and tries to push himself up—and immediately, to Kat’s infinite horror, drops like a stone.

_Is this punishment for when I got high in college? Maybe something I did as a teenager? I don’t remember being_ that _bad._

Kat holds the trash bag like a bludgeoning tool and reluctantly creeps forward, until the seemingly unconscious man is roughly two feet away. She nudges him in the side with her toe, fully prepared to retreat if he moves, but nothing happens.

She really, _really_ hopes he’s not dead.

“Oh, god”, Kat mutters, dropping onto her knees and searching for the pulse point in his neck. The beat is there, thankfully, but it’s fast and thready.

A cold feeling slides down her spine. He’d rebounded inhumanely fast after getting glanced by a van, so it stands to reason that whatever _this_ is won’t keep him down.

She pauses, but nothing happens. After another couple seconds of him sprawled on the asphalt, she accepts that he doesn’t seem to be waking up anytime soon. _Exceptions to every rule,_ as her father would say.

Christ. This just keeps getting better and better.

Kat glances at the door, half-wondering if she should yell for help. But the last time the homeless man woke up surrounded by people, he ended up injuring one of them, so maybe a crowd wouldn’t be the best idea.

At the very least, she should take him inside. Then Ace can call the hospital.

Kat takes a deep breath and hooks her arms underneath the stranger’s armpits, but when she tries to hoist him up and take a step, the waitress stumbles.

“Jesus _fuck_ ”, Kat wheezes. “How are you so _heavy?_ ”

_And I thought the trash bag was bad._

The homeless man, predictably, doesn’t reply. Kat tries again, but when that doesn’t yield better results, she props him against the wall next to the dumpster and digs out her phone.

“Change of plans”, she mumbles. “Ambulance first. Then I’ll get Ace and Matt to take you inside. ‘Kay? Wait—should I even move you at all?”

Silence. Kat should stop talking to herself before it gets weird.

Balanced on the balls of her feet in front of him, she starts dialing 911, and simultaneously takes his pulse again. That’s an important thing to tell the operator, right? Or should she wait until the paramedics arrive?

_Do I tell the paramedics that Matt ran him over?_ She wonders. _Can we scrape up enough cash to cover his medical bills?_

There had been no telling what was wrong with him at the crash site, since he’d disappeared so quickly. The bruise, as ugly as it is, looks more like the result of a fight. Kat’s seen her fair share of brawls, in high school cafeterias and on college campuses, but he’d have to have been hit pretty damn hard to leave a mark that size.

He wasn’t moving his left arm, either. It’d been pulled tight against his body.

“Okay. This is…fine”. Kat hesitates, then puts the phone in her apron and starts rolling up his sleeve. If something _is_ wrong, she wants to make sure it isn’t serious. And if it _is,_ she wants to tell the paramedics before they arrive.

Except everything is not, in fact, “fine”. She stares at the now-bare arm with varying levels of disbelief and shock; thoughts of broken bones entirely forgotten.

It’s definitely not every day you meet a guy with an arm completely made of metal.

_What. The. Hell._

The prosthetic, because what else could it be, looks incredibly advanced. More advanced than anything Kat has ever seen, but it reminds her more of Terminator than the Iron Man. Besides, as far as she knows, Tony Stark hasn’t started marketing his futuristic tech.

Kat is beginning to consider yelling for her friends after all, when the homeless man’s eyes snap open, and his right hand clamps around her wrist.

She opens her mouth to scream, but all he does is shove her away from him. The minute he lets her go, Kat scrambles crab-walk style to the opposite wall and presses her back against it, unsure if this is a fight-or-flight situation.

For better or worse, it turns out to be neither. The staring contest resumes, and the homeless man tries to stand—but he’s clearly in pain, and Kat has a sneaking suspicion it has everything to do with the prosthetic.

“Your arm”, she blurts. “It’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

The homeless man doesn’t answer, but the limb in question is semi-cradled against his stomach, and it’s not being jostled. He’s obviously protective of it.

“Maybe I can help?” Kat suggests, a little hysterical. She has no clue why she keeps insisting on talking to him. “My phone’s right here and my friends are inside, maybe we could…call an ambulance?”

The look he’s giving her morphs quickly into a glare.

“No doctors”, he rasps, and his voice sounds absolutely wrecked, as if he hasn’t spoken in years. Surprisingly, he has a hint of a Brooklyn accent.

“O…kay”. If the guy doesn’t want a doctor’s expertise, Kat is at a loss. She can’t, in good conscience, leave him here to suffer. “Do you want a First Aid kit? A, uh, toolbox?”

_A toolbox!?_

If this doesn’t end badly, Snow is going to have a conniption.

_You are not a mechanic,_ she would shriek, _you were an ENGLISH MAJOR!_

Kat struggles to regain her composure and holds her hands up, palms-out, in case the homeless man wants to make sure she isn’t armed. He seems extremely distrustful of his surroundings, for whatever reason.

_And I’m the white girl in horror movies,_ she thinks. _What a pair we make._

The man regards her carefully, and evidently finds her proposal acceptable. He nods, lowering himself back to the ground, and Kat bolts.

From the front of the café, Snow calls, “What’s taking you so long? I was starting to think you’d been murdered!”

“Stray cat!” Kat lies, practically diving into Ace’s office and rummaging under his desk for the toolbox. She finds the fire-engine red monstrosity sitting between a container of laundry detergent and a box of magazines. “Gimme a minute to feed it, then we can go!”

Snow’s exasperated sigh is audible from down the hall, and Ace, Evan, and Matt start laughing. Kat ignores the pressing urge to tell them the truth and returns to the alley, where the homeless man is exactly where she left him.

“Here”, she says, setting the toolbox by his feet and going to hover in front of the door, unsure if it would be better to stay.

The man looks almost surprised, as if he hadn’t been expecting her to bring him an actual toolbox. But he leans forward and extracts a thin screwdriver, a pair of wire cutters, and some tweezers that probably belong to Evan.

With his right hand, he slips the screwdriver in between two of the metal plates, and starts prying open a small square panel, exposing the arm’s inner-workings. The mess of circuitry makes Kat nauseous, but another part of her is admittedly fascinated.

The homeless man looks up from his task and makes eye-contact with her, either just now realizing she’s still here, or just now choosing to address it. The trapped look is still present, but she’s no longer convinced he’s going to start breaking more noses.

“Thank you”, he says, finally, and if Kat had to describe the moment it would be _awkward._ But he does seem genuinely sincere.

Kat nods, and before she can change her mind, leaves. She tells Snow the stray cat is full and that they can head home.

The next morning, the toolbox is on the stoop, with all of its contents neatly in place.

Naturally, her friends don’t believe her.

Snow did admit that she was gone for a weirdly long amount of time to be feeding a cat, and had been about to check on her when she returned. Matt thinks that Kat is making fun of him, and Ace and Evan are convinced that Matt deserves it. No matter how desperately she insists on the story being real, they dismiss her concerns.

Kat tries to find proof in the alley, but there aren’t security cameras, and she was the sole witness (besides the guy, of course). Whatever he did to the arm must not have left any spare parts, and if it did, he must’ve taken them with him.

(It would have to have been for a reason. The trouble is, she’s not sure if that reason would keep her up at night).

“I _swear_ ”, Kat insists, as she and Snow enter their apartment, “It _actually_ happened. I thought he was going to kill me!”

“With _what,_ his ‘ _Terminator arm_ ’?”

“You’ve known me since college! Would I make something like this up?”

“You _do_ have an inventive imagination. And you’re a writer”.

“I write crappy poetry and you _know it_ ”.

“K, honey”, Snow says, the pretense of humor dropped, “Are you _sure?_ ”

“Wouldn’t you be able to tell if I was lying?”

That succeeds in stumping her, because Snow stops in the middle of throwing her apron over the couch. She frowns, forehead creased in thought, then hums vaguely. But she still doesn’t look completely convinced.

“Yeah”, she says. “I guess I would. But I didn’t sense anything _wrong_ ”.

“Seriously?”

“Scout’s honor. Maybe I _am_ a little rusty”.

It could be possible, but Kat doubts it. The man was in the perfect position to hurt her, on account of them technically running him over, but he hadn’t. He’d _thanked_ her. That could contribute to Snow not noticing his presence, if he wasn’t a danger, but the details weren’t adding up.

Kat doesn’t understand why this is affecting her so much. The arm was weird, sure, but New York as a whole was getting weirder by the millisecond.

Snow offers a sympathetic smile and slings an arm around her shoulders. “If I were you, I’d forget all about it and move on with my life. For what it’s worth, the odds that you’ll ever see the guy again are pretty fuckin’ slim”.

That’s true. Kat _wants_ to believe it’s true.

“Sure”, she says.


	6. Chapter 6

“You know, it’s kind of funny”.

Myra, bent over a blueprint of the Hydra base, pauses in the middle of tracing the escape route. On her left, Todd’s Stark Industries employee, June Chambers, exhales through her nose.

The speaker is another one of Todd’s accomplices: a guy named Jeff Bridger, who is supposed to help kick ass, cover them during extraction, and make it abundantly clear that he is June’s ex. Currently, the marksman is making eyes at Beth, and Myra semi-regrets convincing the spies to let her tag along.

(Not that she needed their permission. She is her own damn woman, thank you very much).

Beth, dressed head-to-toe in black tactical gear, arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you know…” Jeff makes a vague gesture, oblivious. “Captain America fights with a shield. And you fight with a sword!”

Beth’s eye twitches imperceptibly.

The sword (she _told_ her it would be too trademark-y) is something Myra hasn’t seen in years, since her roommate retired it. The blade is double-edged; three feet in length and gleaming. The cruciform hilt is wrapped in black leather, intended for a two-handed grip, but Beth wields it just as easily with one. She’s been sharpening it with a whetstone for longer than strictly necessary to avoid conversation. Myra is not shocked that it didn’t work.

“Funny”, Beth deadpans.

“What?” Jeff grins, and she feels a headache coming on. “It’s ironic. Right, June-bug?”

June grunts noncommittally. “Sure”.

“Right, Andreas?”

Myra pinches the bridge of her nose. “…Sure”.

“ _Sure_ ”, Beth echoes, under her breath.

“ _Wait_ ”. In the passenger’s seat, Todd’s programmer (Nancy Elliott), turns around to face them. “Do you _not like_ Captain America?”

The silence that follows is almost comical, and Myra tries honestly to go back to the blueprint. She really, _really_ does. But the expression on Beth’s face is too priceless not to incite at least a _little_ pity.

“No, no”, she says, making direct eye-contact with her friend. “You _love_ Captain America, don’t you?”

Beth’s glare could cut glass, but they’ve been together too long for it to have any real effect. She keeps scraping the whetstone along the sword’s blade.

_We went to college together,_ Myra thinks. _Nice try._

After an awkward pause, Beth finally says, “He’s…okay”.

“ _Okay!?_ ” Nancy’s hand flies up to her mouth, and Todd (the designated driver of their nice, bulletproof minivan) sighs. “But—he’s _Captain America!_ ”

She’s half-expecting a scandalized joke about communism, but then June clears her throat.

“I hate to be a party pooper”, she says, “but my boss thinks I’m using my vacation days to visit my mother, and we’re here on an _actual_ mission”.

“And Captain America’s very fine ass isn’t one of them”, Myra can’t stop herself from adding, and she valiantly does not bust out laughing in the middle of enemy territory.

“ _All jokes aside_ ”, says Todd, “Miss Chambers is right. We need to get everything we can from this base before moving on to the next. Let’s do a rundown of the plan, just to make sure we all know what we’re doing. Bridger?”

“James and I are going to enter through this back entrance”, Jeff obliges, pointing to the large red _X_ marked on Myra’s blueprint. “It’s not as heavily guarded, as is the curse of all back entrances. You’d have to be an idiot or suicidal to storm the front. Once inside, Nancy will hack their firewalls, and we’ll make our way to wherever the fuck they keep the computers. We’ll download their information onto this nice, Stark-patented USB drive (thank you, June-bug), then get the hell outta there. Todd, you’re our man behind the wheel, and supplier of booze when we get back to your place. June is here to help Nancy, and you—”

He stops at Myra and frowns. Admittedly, the plan had not included her originally, and they should’ve come up with a new one during the drive.

“I’ll stay in the car”, she says.

Jeff nods. “She’ll stay in the car”.

Beth shoots her a hypocritical look that implies there will be hell to pay if she doesn’t, and Myra quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

_If you get to raise my blood pressure, I get to raise yours._

Petty? Maybe. Worth it? _Yes._

Todd turns back to the road, satisfied, but his eyes watch them in the rearview mirror. His fingers flex on the wheel and he says, “Thank you all, for agreeing to help me”.

Jeff offers a semi-sarcastic salute, amused by his friend’s seriousness, while June ignores him and shifts the blueprint onto her own lap.

“Good luck”, Myra says. “Kick ass”.

“I always do”, Beth replies sarcastically.

Up until three hours ago, the dark-haired roommate had been convinced that she was only coming to scope things out—make sure they were _legitimate,_ or whatever. They had left Bruno with a friendly cat-sitter who didn’t mind being scratched by a hellion, and set off for Vermont that morning; a three-hour drive in which awkwardness reigned.

Todd’s idea of a safehouse had turned out to be his parents’ summer home. He was definitely surprised to see Myra, but hadn’t protested, and the others were all more concerned to see what Beth’s “gimmick” was.

In hindsight, it was _stupid._ But they were getting ready to leave, and Myra had a truly terrible feeling about all of this, so she’d found herself saying, _wait._

Dumbest decision of her life. Beth must be rubbing off on her.

“We’re pulling up”, Todd says. “You guys ready?”

“Ready”, Jeff and Beth chime, in unison.

“Comms in place?”

“Yep”.

“Well”. Todd takes a deep breath, then cuts the engine. “I’ll see you on the other side”.

“Dramatic”, Myra mutters, as they kick open the van doors and slink out. The remaining occupants watch them disappear into the trees with varying levels of trepidation.

The landscape is very…forest-y. The road that got them here was ridiculously tight, and she knows if there are snipers in the foliage, it’s possible they could stay hidden until the last minute. They’re twenty feet from the base, shielded by the leaves, but that’s all the cover they have.

The comm in Myra’s ear buzzes. Beth says, loud and clear, “ _Found the backdoor. There were two guards, but we handled them. Picking the lock now_ ”.

“Be careful”, she warns. “You don’t know what could be waiting for you on the other side”.

“ _You’re_ warning _her?_ ” Nancy asks, more curious than malicious. “I thought you didn’t have a SHIELD background”.

“I…worked in the military for a couple of years”.

“Seriously?”

“Uh—”

Myra is saved from an explanation by Todd, who elbows Nancy and hisses, “The firewalls. Hurry!”

The computer had been open and ready on Nancy’s lap since they left earlier that afternoon. Her fingers start flying across the keys, and June moves closer to the front of the van, peering over the other woman’s shoulder.

Five long seconds, and then—

“Got it!” Nancy says, proud. “How’re you guys doing?”

“ _Great!_ ” Jeff sounds out of breath. “ _Doing great—Christ, she’s fast_ ”.

“Having trouble keeping up?” Myra is torn between teasing him, or telling Beth to slow down. The last thing they need is more questions about her and her friggin’ _sword,_ it’s suspicious enough as it is.

“ _Oh, no. I’m—SON OF A BITCH!”_

In perfect synchronization with the shout, the ground _shudders._ There’s a loud roaring noise, and everyone ducks out of sight. But there are no other signs of an oncoming attack, and when they cautiously peek out the windows, the only indication that something is wrong is a plume of smoke near the front of the base.

Myra’s stomach jumps into her throat.

“— _Bridger is down!_ ” Beth yells. The connection is distorted. “ _The whole building just_ shook. _They might have some kind of cannon_ ”.

“A cannon? Fired _where you aren’t?_ ” Myra adjusts the straps on her (borrowed) bulletproof vest, and starts moving. “More like they activated the goddamn self-destruct! Can you get out of there?”

“ _Maybe!_ ”

“We need that _data_ ”, Todd moans. “Shit!”

Myra grabs a spare handgun from the weapons bag, turns off the safety, and before anyone can stop her, she jumps out of the van and sprints toward the base.

It’s a tall building, made of stone. It looks like it was renovated from some kind of old mansion, and it reminds her absurdly of Resident Evil.

“I’ll get Bridger”, she says, resigned. “You grab the data”.

“ _Is that Myra? Please tell me that’s not Myra!_ ”

“Unfortunately, that _is_ my name”.

“ _Do you know what you’re doing?_ ” June demands. “ _There are Nazis in there!_ ”

“I took out Nazis in the comfort of my own damn home! This is for my _fucking_ toaster!”

(It’s not the best battle cry, but Myra is under a lot of duress here. She should’ve been firmer when it came to banning agencies).

The pair of guards Beth mentioned are lying face-down in the dirt, in front of the wide-open door. Their Achilles tendons are cut and there’s a generous amount of blood.

_That’s my girl,_ Myra thinks, begrudgingly fond, as she plunges inside and hurries down the hall. With the fluorescent lighting, the gory red smears, and the bodies, it’s like a horror movie asylum.

One of the men is still alive, and he raises his pistol when she rounds the corner. Myra plants a bullet in between the Hydra agent’s eyes and jumps over the body, following the carnage like breadcrumbs.

When Myra finds Jeff, he’s been hidden in a supply closet. There’s a hole in his side, and he looks positively bewildered to see her.

“Hi”, she says, shoving the gun in her waistband ( _should’ve brought a holster_ ), kneeling down, and pressing both hands to the wound. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help”.

“My hero”, he grunts. “That bomb—distracted me. Got shot…when my back was turned”.

The bomb is, indeed, extremely worrying. Myra’s still not convinced the building won’t explode into bits of rubble. “We’ll make fun of your reflexes later. Right now you need to survive”.

Jeff hums in agreement. Myra looks up and down the halls, but she doesn’t hear any approaching footsteps—what she does hear is the distant popping of gunfire, being quickly and decisively silenced.

“Your friend’s fast”, Jeff mumbles, as if he can pick up on her thoughts.

“I know. I’ve been chasing after her, trying to keep her out of trouble, for years. And look where _that_ got me”.

“Hm. Shit like that—ain’t human. She enhanced?”

It’s an honest question. In the world they live in, it shouldn’t be so consequential.

Myra doesn’t answer, and starts tearing off her sleeve to use as a tourniquet. She yelps, caught off guard, when another loud _BOOM!_ slices through the air, and the foundation trembles again. Dust rains from the ceiling and settles on their clothes.

“ _What was that?_ ” Todd buzzes.

“ _It’s getting on my nerves_ ”, Beth growls. “ _I’ve reached the centerpiece of their little shebang. The USB is uploading the data. How’s Bridger?_ ”

“Hanging in there”. Myra finishes tying the strand of fabric around his waist, and pulls one of his arms across her shoulders. “We’ll be home free in a jiffy”.

They’re halfway to the exit when the same _BOOM!_ rocks the building a third time, and they fall. Jeff cries out and she winces in sympathy.

“What the _fuck?_ ” She says. “Shit—sorry!”

“S’ okay”, Jeff croaks. “M’…awesome”.

Myra hovers over him and keeps a hand resting on the gun, prepared to draw it. She’s not sure she can get him to safety if the bombs keep going off. “Is the data almost ready?”

No response.

“ _James?_ ” Todd’s panic is potent through the audio. “ _What’s going on?_ ”

Myra is a millisecond away from going rogue when Beth finally ( _finally_ ) speaks. The only problem is…well, she sounds _pissed._

“ _I’ve got an answer for our mystery explosions_ ”, she says.

“ _Fantastic_ ”, June snaps, “ _Are you going to tell us?_ ”

“ _Turns out we aren’t the only ones who thought storming this base would be a good idea_ ”.

Myra makes eye-contact with Jeff, who squints at her, confused. She swallows, trying to ignore how dry her mouth has become.

“I’m going to regret this”, she says, “but who else is here?”

Beth’s next words are bitter, as if she’s spitting them out through clenched teeth.

“ _Captain—Fucking—America_ ”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's!! Steve!!!


	7. chapter six

Up until Mr. Stars & Stripes showed up, Beth was actually making good time, in between worrying about Myra, hoping that Bridgers wasn’t stupid enough to die, and cursing the mysterious bombs.

She’s in the Hydra base’s control room—a large, square office, with a giant, crescent-shaped computer system in the center—waiting for the USB to finish downloading, when the air shifts behind her. Beth tuck and rolls out of the way just as a red, white, and blue disc cuts through the space where her head would’ve been.

_Oh, no,_ she thinks. _You’ve got be fucking kidding me._

The universe, as it turns out, is not fucking kidding. Beth narrowly deflects a punch with the flat edge of her blade and the man intent on beating the shit out of her has been on TV one too many times to be unrecognizable.

It’s _Captain America._ As she lives and breathes.

Beth dodges a second swing and backflips over the computer console, trying to put some distance between them. The part of her brain still capable of rational thought is whispering, _hey, maybe you should tell this angry superhero that you are not his enemy._

“ _Wait!_ ” Beth shouts, like a moron. She ducks to avoid another shield-shot; a normal person would’ve been knocked unconscious or decapitated by now. “I’m not Hydra!”

That does get Rogers to stop, thank god, but his body language remains primed for a fight. He opens his mouth to speak and another explosion rocks the building, causing them both to stumble.

“ _Damn_ it,” Beth curses, “where the fuck is that coming from?”

The Captain is no longer giving her his undivided attention and doesn’t deign to respond to that comment. Instead, he says into a tiny communicator, “I’m at the control room. Ceasefire.”

For a second, Beth regrets every life decision that has led her to this moment. Through her own comm, Myra’s voice asks, “ _Is the data almost ready?_ ”

“Wait a minute,” she says. “That’s _you?_ ”

“We needed a distraction,” Rogers snaps, and then frowns, as though unsure why he answered that. “If you’re not Hydra, who are you?”

Beth chokes on the words, _I’m with SHIELD,_ because nowadays there’s no difference between the two. She settles for a stiff, hopefully not defensive, “I’m with a group of former agents.”

“ _James?_ ” Todd, now. “ _What’s going on?_ ”

“Former agents?” Captain America says, surprised—and for reasons Beth doesn't understand, displeased. “You’re here for the—”

As if on cue, the USB flashes blue; the download is complete. He pulls it out of the port before she can leap back over the machines and grab it herself.

“We need that,” she says.

He makes no move to hand it over, choosing to scrutinize her instead. Beth has been sized up in the past, but never by someone like him.

(She doesn’t enjoy it. At all.)

Finally, when a minute has gone by, he says, “We’ve got a common goal, here.”

“Yeah,” Beth agrees. “I guess we’ll have to share.”

It might be her imagination, but Rogers’ displeasure seems to intensify. Beth isn’t exactly _feeling the love_ either, but she needs to respond to the others before Myra burns the place to the ground. She half-turns away from him and says, into the comm, “I’ve got an answer for our mystery explosions.”

“ _Fantastic,_ ” June snaps, without preamble. “ _Are you going to tell us?_ ”

Beth swallows a sigh. She can feel the Captain’s eyes on her, and she has no doubt that he’s listening to every word. “Turns out we aren’t the only ones who thought storming this base would be a good idea.”

It’s a wary Myra who asks, because Myra has been, and always will be, the most practical in any given situation. “ _I’m going to regret this, but who else is here?_ ”

Beth goes for a sort of wry disposition and doesn’t quite succeed.

“Captain-Fucking-America.”

Everyone goes back to Todd’s summer home. Rogers follows in whatever vehicle he and his buddies came in.

(Beth is pleased to discover that Bridger should be fine. It’s a strange sight to watch _the_ Captain America apologize for his “distraction”.)

Their group arrives first and Todd stays parked outside the two-story lodge to wait for their “guests”; if it weren’t for his fingers tapping nervous rhythms on the steering wheel, he’d be the picture of calm. Beth wants to wait, too, but Myra pulls her inside by the arm.

“Are you okay?” She whispers, as Nancy and June help Bridger through the foyer.

“I’m fine,” Beth mutters. “I am going to kill you later for running into a building full of Nazis with only a bulletproof vest and a handgun.”

Myra looks pointedly at the sword strapped to the blonde’s back. She coughs, “ _hypocrite_ ”, into her fist.

“That’s _different._ ”

“It’s really, _really_ not.”

“You worry too much,” Bridger jokes, between wheezing breaths. “Your friend saved my ass.”

June snorts. “Would’ve preferred if your ass hadn’t _needed_ saving.”

“Aw, were you worried, June-bug?”

June looks as if she wants to kick him the shin, but is restraining herself on the grounds that he’s already wounded. Beth is starting to doubt that their relationship ended on friendly terms.

“Guys,” Nancy says, oblivious, “it’s _Captain America._ Like—holy _shit!_ ”

“Holy shit,” Beth grumbles. “He tried to take my head off with that oversized dinner plate.”

Nancy gasps, affronted. June laughs and Bridger blinks, torn between amusement, shock, or maybe passing out. Thankfully, they reach the infirmary before anyone can comment on Beth’s very real, very present vitriol.

Since neither her or Myra are great with medicine, they hover outside the door. Beth watches as Bridger is dropped unceremoniously onto a cot.

Myra, arms crossed and covered in Bridger’s blood, leans against the wall. She left footprints on the nice floral carpet and doesn’t appear to care. “’Oversized dinner plate’?”

“I’m not technically _wrong._ ”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Beth says. “This isn’t the first mission to go off the rails.”

“Oh, really? What happened last time, ‘cause your mood seems to be heavily aligned with his arrival. I know you’ve never _met_ the legendary Captain America before, so it shouldn’t have had anything to do with him.”

The last mission she went on was the excursion in Peru, where a Hydra agent shot her, because Captain America was cutting off Hydra’s metaphorical head and burning the metaphorical stump in D.C.

Myra remembers. Her eyes widen comically.

“Whoops,” she says. “Okay, but every _other_ mission that went south had nothing to do with him. And Peru wasn’t his fault, he was just…around.”

“True,” Beth says. “I know what he did saved the world. I’ve seen the footage of those Helicarriers going down.”

It’d made her chest ache, watching the Triskelion go down with them. SHIELD had been a constant in her life for years and all of it was proven to be a lie in a single afternoon.

_Which is why you’re here, trying to get some well-deserved payback._

In the foyer, the front door opens and shuts. Todd ambles toward them, trailed by Rogers and another man.

“James; Andreas,” Todd says. “How’s Jeff?”

Beth hangs off the doorframe and calls, “Got the bleeding under control?”

“A few stitches and he’ll be fine!” June replies. “Todd, where the hell do you keep the disinfectant?”

Todd pinches the bridge of his nose and enters the infirmary, leaving Beth alone with Myra, Captain America, and the stranger standing next to him. He’s wearing what looks like a clunky metal backpack.

Myra looks at the clunky backpack and freezes. Beth thinks, _oh no._

“Captain,” she says, quickly. “Todd told you everything?”

“He gave me the short version,” he says. “Beth James?”

He extends a hand. Beth disregards the sour taste in her mouth and she and Myra take turns shaking it.

“Yeah. And you're Steve Rogers,” she replies. “Who’s your friend?”

“Sam Wilson,” Captain America’s friend says. He doesn’t shake either of their hands and nods at Myra, cautious. “Andreas.”

“Wilson.” Myra forces a smile. “Been a while.”

The Captain arches an eyebrow and looks back and forth between the two of them. He glances at Beth, as if she’d explain. “You know each other?”

“Sort of,” Wilson says, at the same time Myra says, “We were in the Air Force together.”

Beth suppresses a wince and makes a note not to mention this during the car ride home. Myra can hold a grudge like nobody else and she can and _will_ put salt in her coffee.

Rogers looks like he has questions, but Todd returns and saves the day. If he notices the obvious tension in the hallway, he doesn’t care; Beth finds she envies his ability to exude pure ignorance.

“I’d like to talk to you in my office, if you don’t mind,” he says to the Captain. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, regarding the USB drive. And…other things.”

Beth bristles, because she doesn’t trust that at _all._ She wants to protest, but Myra elbows her in the side, and the look in her eyes reads, _don’t you dare._

Beth hopes her answering look says, _fine. Traitor._

The three men proceed down the hall to have their super-secret discussion; it’s almost comical watching them try to walk side-by-side in such a small area. Myra motions to the infirmary and Beth follows her in.

The infirmary seems to have been converted from a study of some kind. Bridger is lying on a cot and Nancy is doing his stitches. June is standing close by with a bottle of bourbon.

“So, Todd wants to _chat_ with the Captain,” June says, dryly. “Sounds great.”

“It _is_ great,” Nancy says, enthused, even with her friend’s blood smeared on her forearms. “That was the _actual Captain America!_ He’s _gorgeous._ ”

Rogers wasn’t wearing his blue cowl in the hallway and his hair had been sticking up in sweat-dried clumps. There were bags the size of Kansas under his baby blue eyes.

“Gorgeous is a strong word,” Beth says. “I know Todd promised us alcohol after the mission, but what’s with the bourbon?”

“Can’t find the painkillers.” June raises the bottle and shakes it slightly. “Hence, the old-fashioned method.”

With an arm thrown over his eyes, Bridger groans. “Speakin’ of the old-fashioned method, I think I need another hit.”

June steps forward and tilts the bottle into his mouth. When he’s finished drinking, Bridger slurs, “Do you think…that Todd wants the big guy to work with us?”

“Duh,” says Nancy.

“He’d be an asset,” June agrees. “I don’t approve of his methods, though. Jeff, didn’t you say that anyone who stormed the front of the building was idiotic and suicidal?”

Bridger grunts. “Idiotic _or_ suicidal. S’ a difference.”

“Sure, but which one is he?”

“Hopefully neither,” Myra says. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Like whatever’s on that USB drive.”

Right. The USB drive. Beth guesses that it’s tucked safely in one of Rogers’ pockets.

“You’re not wrong,” June hums. “But can we talk about the fact that you _know_ Captain America’s accomplice? You were in the Air Force together?”

Figures they would focus on that, on top of everything. Beth moves to change the subject, but Myra stops her with a minute shake of the head.

“Kind of,” she says. “He was a…pilot. I was an engineer. We only met on a few, separate occasions. Nothing huge.”

“I was hoping it was something juicy,” Nancy teases. She’s doing the stitches without looking at them and Beth sort of wants to know how a programmer got so good at patching people up. “Like, he’s your ex. That’d be _hilarious._ ”

“We aren’t even friends,” Myra says. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“ _Sounds_ like a break-up,” June mutters. Unlike Nancy, the idea doesn’t seem funny to her. “I think he was on the News, when the Helicarriers went down. He had on those metal wings.”

“Those are fuckin’ _sick,_ ” Bridger mumbles. “How’d he get ‘em?”

“Who cares where he got them? The machinery is incredible,” June says. “Stark has his armor, but if I’m being honest, the wings look more…maneuverable. Of course, they don’t offer the same level of protection, but a lot can be said for stealth. What do you think they’re made of?”

Beth glances at Myra. Myra breathes out through her nose.

“Carbon fiber material,” she says. “It’s durable and flexible.”

Bridger tries to shift on the cot and Nancy smacks his arm. June nods, considering, and takes a sip of the bourbon.

“Good theory,” she says. “How do you know?”

“Well,” Myra says. “I sort of. _Designed_ them?”

A pause. Beth strongly considers unsheathing her sword and sharpening it with the whetstone again.

“You’re _shitting_ me,” June deadpans. “You designed them?”

“Yeah. Never flown one, though.”

“But _still,_ ” Nancy whistles and finishes tying off the last stitch. “That’s cool as hell.”

Bridger gives them a thumbs-up. Beth would bet money on him not remembering this tomorrow, when the bourbon has worn off, and they’ve found some painkillers to give him.

“My roommate is a genius,” she says, dismissive. “I’ve known this for years. What do you think is taking Todd so long?”

“Thank you for the overwhelming display of trust, James,” Todd declares, as he walks into the infirmary with a flourish. He reminds her of the cat that got the cream and she’s instantly suspicious—more so because Rogers and Wilson aren’t with him.

“O- _kay,_ ” Myra says. “What happened?”

Todd grins. Beth’s stomach drops through the floor and into the abyss.

“Good news, everyone,” he says. “We’re teaming up with the Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead!! who knows if I'll go on hiatus again but here's Steve!!!


End file.
